


Day of the Serpent (Day of the Dove Redux)

by raja815



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Aliens Make Them Do It, Episode Related, Kissing, M/M, Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:40:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raja815/pseuds/raja815
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A reimagining of the episode "Day of the Dove," in which the alien presence preys not on violence but sexual arousal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day of the Serpent (Day of the Dove Redux)

**Author's Note:**

> Short piece, without much of a point beyond dreamy what-if speculation. Title changed from 'dove' to 'serpent' because, in addition to the connotations of temptation and things forbidden, snakes are considered in some cultures to be symbols of fertility, masculinity, and sexual potency.
> 
> It will probably help if you've seen the episode recently, but just in case you haven't, here's the exchange the fic is based on:
>
>>   
> SPOCK: Fascinating. During Lieutenant Johnson's emotional outburst, his expression of hatred and lust for vengeance, the alien's life energy level increased. When the Lieutenant became unconscious, the alien lost energy. 
>> 
>> KIRK: It subsists on the emotions of others. 
>> 
>> SPOCK: This one appears to be strengthened by mental irradiations of hostility, violent intentions. 
>> 
>> KIRK: It exists on the hate of others. 
>> 
>> SPOCK: To put it simply. And it has acted as a catalyst, creating this situation in order to satisfy that need. It has brought together opposing forces, provided crude instruments in an effort to promote the most violent mode of conflict. 
>> 
>> KIRK: And kept numbers and resources balanced, so that it can maintain a constant state of violence. It's got to have a vulnerable area. We've got to get rid of it. 
>> 
>> SPOCK: Then all hostile attitudes on board must be eliminated. The fighting must end and soon. 
>> 
>> KIRK: Or we're a doomed ship, travelling forever between galaxies, filled with eternal bloodlust, eternal warfare. Kang has got to listen. We've got to pool our knowledge and get rid of this thing.  
> 

The ship's ambient temperature has not increased, the artificial environment controls have not malfunctioned, but somehow the air feels so hot. Balmy. Almost tropical. It makes Kirk think of a beach, somewhere warm and sensual, where sun and water lick at naked skin while lips touch lips. Kirk has always associated beaches with unabashed sensuality, and somehow under the alien's peculiar influence, his senses seem determined to create one.

The alien itself is resting high up in the far corner of the corridor. Kirk can see it, cloudlike and luminous. It wavers and whirls, pulses with a pinkish-orange glow. Beach colors. Colors of sunsets, sweet tourist drinks and the muted pinks of naked flesh... yes. Beachlike, certainly. 

Except instead of ocean, all he smells is the spicy copper scent of Spock.

His first officer is before him, hands clasped behind his back, unmoving, lit in pulsing shades of gold and pink. Just standing there, standing so close. 

Too close. 

Not close enough.

"Most fascinating," Spock says. His voice is low, lower than usual, almost a growl. Kirk can feel the Vulcan's heat like an aura all around him. Goosebumps race across his skin, and he feels as though his body has been tightened, turned like a screw.

"What is?" He manages. Clasped firmly at his side, his hands shake. Spock is so near, the cloudlike alien's strange light reflecting off the sleek blue science uniform. Kirk can see the planes of muscle under the tight fabric, all slim lines and delicious angles, and the captain of the Enterprise struggles to bite back a moan.

"When we observed Lieutenant Johnson and Ensign Nakamura in the corridor, engaged in..." Spock's face twitches, the minutest crack in his impeccable control, and Kirk is nearly undone.

"Coitus," Kirk supplies, closing his eyes so he won't have to look at Spock. "Sex. Fucking."

"...As you say," Spock says, and swallows, and Kirk has to open his eyes again because it's suddenly far too easy to picture Spock's mouth against his own body, mouthing at his skin, painting him with stripes of heat from his delicate tongue. "As they engaged, the creature's life energy increased. When the two parted, it lost energy."

"It was feeding on them. On their emotions?"

"It appears to be strengthened by... sexual energies, of some sort. Mental irradiations of pleasure, perhaps, or some kind of pheromone displacement."

"It's subsisting on our... arousal." For a moment their eyes lock, each seeking confirmation in the other's theory. At the moment he catches Spock's gaze with his own, Kirk pulses, body and blood, and ripples with shockwaves like a star gone supernova. He gasps.

Spock looks away. 

"Yes," Spock says, voice strained. Then he seems to steel himself, squeezes his fists, and continues. "To put it simply. I believe it is acting as a..." He falters again, searching for words. His hands are trembling. His voice is lower, softer with each word, the grate of waves against sandy breakers, and his smell, oh his smell, is everywhere.

"Acting as a c-catalyst," Spock chokes out, "creating the situation in order to satisfy that need. It seems to be manipulating its victims' internal chemistry, creating strong feelings of... arousal, and... lust, driving them to satisfy their biological urges, so that it can maintain a constant source of—"

"Spock," Kirk moans, "god, Spock, I'm so hard."

The Vulcan's face tenses. His hands shake so hard his shoulders quiver.

"I. .." He whispers. His lips part, and Kirk sees the point of his tongue, sea green and rough as sand, breaking through a thin string of saliva that has stretched between his teeth. "Yes, Captain. I, too, am... not unaffected."

His head bows forward—Spock is ashamed—and Kirk chokes on the moan he tries desperately to suppress. Even through the crushing wave of arousal that came in the riptide of Spock's admission, Kirk can hardly bear the mortification he knows the words have cost his friend.

He must fight this, he thinks, must be strong. 

"It maintains in its victims a constant state of arousal," Kirk repeats, giving Spock time to repair his crumbling controls, even while his own are ever slipping, "so it can keep a ready... supply... It needs... Well, we know what it needs. The question is how to stop it. It's got to have a vulnerable area. We've got to get rid of it.”

The beach colors, pink and gold and sandy orange, flood the hall in wavering ripples of reflected light against the polished bulkhead. It looks like water, like waves lit by sunset, and unbidden Kirk thinks of Spock lying in wet sand. Thinks of him naked and glistening, with saltwater trails all over his skin, thinks of pressing his body against the Vulcan's and kissing, _kissing,_ legs in the waves, sun on his back, mouth on Spock's, hands on Spock's, dick on Spock's...

"Affirmative," Spock replies. 

He's moved even closer.

Unbearably close. Kirk turns his head in a last ditch effort at control, but can feel Spock's breath against his own lips, can taste the flavor of Spock's exhale as he speaks.

"But to do so, all... all _conducive_ attitudes on board... must be eliminated. All forms of... sexual congress, all arousals, must be terminated.”

"And soon."

"Yes. Before it can... Before it becomes... Before... Oh, _Jim_ \--"

And Spock's words dissolve into a groan as he presses forward.

Kissing. 

Oh, kissing him. Kissing Spock, tongues twining together, Spock's mouth so hot. Humid exhale like a sea breeze. Sliding his hands up, under the blue tunic. Hot skin. Coarse hair. Spock's breath in Kirk's lungs, and he can taste the smell of him now, heady copper warmth and sweet hot sunshine.

The ship. The crew. Alien, using them. They have to stop this, have to regain control, have to free themselves and their crew or they'll be doomed to drift forever out in space, unable to think, unable to force their minds from baser lusts long enough to shake themselves free of their captor.

Spicy copper smell. Hot rough tongue. Soft beach colors, oranges and pinks. Pressed against the bulkhead. Spock's racing pulse beneath his hand. Spock's dick, hard as stone against his own.

"Spock," Kirk gasps, "Spock, we _must_ —"

"Jim," Spock moans, and crushes his hips against his Captain's. "I cannot control—"

"Spock, we have to stop, the ship, Spock, we—" But Kirk is thrusting now, unrestrained. Pressure and tension, building, huge, too much, and Spock is grinding against him, frenzied hips and sliding tongue. He bites down onto Kirk's neck like a lion taking a mate and Kirk cries out. He wraps his leg around Spock's as waves crash and break and spray within his head and everything blurs to oversaturated sunset color.

_have to stop this have to_

_kissing so hard mouth so hot_

_the ship no think of_

_Spock_

_beach at sunset_

_god so hard_

_kissing his mouth_

_oh Spock—_

The alien cloud pulses a violent magenta light.

"Jim," Spock pants into Kirk's ear, even as he kisses and bites and thrusts, close, closer, _closer_ , "Jim, oh _Jim_ —"

The pulsing light deepens, darkens, becomes a bruised purple color, sparkles and throbs and vibrates. Growing bigger. Growing stronger. Feeding on their affection, stealing their desire.

Laughing at them.

With the greatest effort of his life, Kirk shoves Spock out to arm's length.

" _Jim,_ ," Spock protests, tries to close the distance again, reaches for his Captain like a drowning man reaching for the shore.

"Spock, we can't let it. We can't make it stronger. We can't let it make _us_ make it stronger."

He grips Spock's shoulders, squeezes tight. Spock's mouth glistens with their mingled saliva. His pupils are blown, his hair is disheveled, and his face is so, so beautiful.

"Jim," he whispers. 

"I won't let it take this from us," Kirk hisses. "This isn't its to share."

Spock's eyes close. He breathes, deep, slow, and when they open Kirk can see the vestiges of Vulcan control sliding back over his face, lust abating.

Kirk aches to watch it go.

"Indeed. Captain." He breathes again, long and slow. "What can be done?"

"We have to pool our knowledge, get rid of this thing... environmental controls. Can we access them through the manual override terminals on this deck?"

"Affirmative. Perhaps if we can lower the ambient temperature...?"

"Or the oxygen levels, just enough to make everyone pass out for a few minutes. Maybe we can weaken it enough to get the upper hand."

And they are in command again, in control of reason, and there is heroism and triumph and soon all is as it should be. The ship is put to rights, the crew makes their apologies and resumes their duties. Spock is once more the proper, private Vulcan first officer, and Kirk is the unflappable captain they all depend on. They stand side by side on the bridge and do not touch and watch the stars stream by as they leave this latest anomaly far behind. All is well, all is right. 

But that night, Kirk lies in bed alone, and there is no beach, no sunset color, no spicy scent, no Spock pressed warm against his aching body, and for just a moment the colors of his regret are all the grayish greens of stormy seas.

* * *


End file.
